Wednesday, October 28, 2009

From now on, I'll be blogging at NadineBells.com. I'm not coordinated enough to maintain two personal blogs. It's not good for the narcissism either.

A boy once ended a quasi-date (one of those weird evenings that starts off as a nondate and ends up as a definite date) with, "Are you going to blog about this?" I responded, "Only if I can fit this into my 'Elegant Hairstyles for Every Bride' article."

I never saw him again. For non-writing-related reasons. And until this moment, over a year later, I did not blog about that night. Or about him. At all.

I scribbled in my journal. I spent midnights at the piano. And you had no idea. Because I was busy posting YouTube videos here.

It's a shame, really, that I'm at the mercy of such self-censorship. There are a lot of fun and crazy and frustrating moments that would make great online stories. But I want to be trustworthy. I want to maintain healthy relationships. As a general rule, I don't want to scare you away by making you paranoid that you're my next blog post. Unless you want to be. In which case, let me know. And I'll tell cyberspace exactly what I think of you.

I'll continue to tell stories. Maybe I'll tell even more than usual. A fractured memoir, if you will. You can blame Donald Miller for the life-chronicling. But I won't give all my secrets away. I'll leave that to OneRepublic.

I missed YouTube Tuesday yesterday. Appropriately enough, I can't embed this video from YouTube. I kind of love the first verse.

I need another storySomething to get off my chestMy life gets kinda boringNeed something that I can confess'Til all my sleeves are stained redFrom all the truth that I've saidCome by it honestly, I swearThought you saw me wink, noI've been on the brink, so

Tell me what you want to hearSomething that were like those yearsSick of all the insincereSo I'm gonna give all my secrets awayThis time, don't need another perfect lineDon't care if critics never jump in lineI'm gonna give all my secrets away

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Yes, those are X's on my hands. Apparently the lady in line thought I said I was under 19. I ACTUALLY said that I probably wouldn't be drinking tonight. She grabbed her permanent marker and made the decision for me.

Straight edge for life, yo.

(Do kids say "yo" anymore? Did I just prove that I'm old by saying "kids"?)

You should also note that I brought out the plaid shirt. Just for Mr. Gosling. In return, he wore a three-piece suit. Have you ever heard girls scream because someone took off his suit jacket? I have.

I was wedged at the front between two strangers. On my left, the girl texted her friend: "This show is f@#$ed." On my right, the girl whispered, "Could there be a more beautiful man?" It was appropriate that I stood in the middle. Because I didn't find it insane, nor did I have any intentions of drooling. Although these particular well-suited musicians were quite attractive. Not gonna lie.

I'll post pictures soon. The show was sort of like Nuit Blanche packed into two hours on a single stage. A ghost sang "Like a Virgin." A guy bent a spoon with his mind. A woman jump-roped with a poodle. And a choir of child-sized ghosts sang backup.

And it sort of all made sense. Even when they shot a little girl, who then resurrected in silhouette, singing Nancy Sinatra's "Bang Bang" while Gosling whispered the lyrics in her ear.

Maybe you had to be there.

Sometimes it's inspiring to experience something so completely new and unusual. Something you can't box in or define. It was a collaborative, interactive, slightly rough-around-the-edges performance, with no room for big stars and egos. If the women didn't squeal, you'd have no idea that Gosling was an anybody.

P.S. His band mate is actually prettier than he is. But less accomplished musically. And less interesting. I can't explain it, but I'm not very intrigued by walking Ken dolls.

Friday, October 16, 2009

I've had this conversation with two people now. So I might as well extend it to the blogosphere. It's about contentment. And settling. And tulle.

There's a recent phenomenon in wedding-gown shopping in which a bride ends up buying multiple dresses. She tries on a beautiful dress, thinks it's the one, and buys it. But then she finds another dress, the one she knows is the one. So then she's stuck trying to sell the first one. She suffers a financial loss, but it's worth it because she gets to walk down the aisle in sartorial perfection.

Some brides buy three or four gowns before the big day. Bridal consultants rejoice.

Such a shopping trend makes me uncomfortable.

Firstly, if you're not sure in the first place, why are you buying? Why are you settling? Why are you spending thousands on one deemed not good enough? Is it the panic that there just might not be anything better out there? Are you purchasing out of fear? Desperation?

Secondly, why are you still looking? If you think you've found the one, made the down payment, started the alteration process, what on earth are you doing trying on other dresses? And does this thought pattern carry over into other areas of your life? Will you keep looking at men after you've committed to the one you think is "the one"? Can you be content with your choice, even though it won't necessarily line up with the picture of magical perfection that floats in your head?

I will not settle. I will choose wisely. And then I will stand by my decision. This applies both to the dress I'll buy one day and to the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle. I'll be picky before I buy, not after.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

I was completely uninspired to pursue job leads today. Sure, I applied for a job and posted a quick Gather.com item or two, but I had little desire to send out application upon application for gigs that barely pay and inspire even less.

It was time to purge.

When my space is cluttered, I can't focus. I feel defeated. So I spent my afternoon surrounded by stacks of paper, sorting through the paper trail created by four years of Toronto living. Oddly, I found things from 15 years ago. Paper must follow me.

My life in paper reads as half-fiction. Partly because I remember nothing, and partly because people send me lies.

A program from Stratford with the lead actor's phone number scrawled across his bio.

A postcard of a cartoon Toby Penner. Oh, Jake.

The script from Oliver! I was Nancy in the SIXTH GRADE. And yes, it's the original copy.

Monologues I wrote in university. Including the children's story about suicide.

A napkin from East Side Mario's. I outlined the plot of a play on it.

Two fake love letters. I don't remember ever receiving them. But they're clearly written by a girlfriend, pretending to be the man we quasi-stalked one summer. He's now married. And on TV. I'm neither.

A letter that was probably supposed to be a love letter. But I was pretty stupid and didn't notice at the time. Boys, don't be subtle. We'll miss the awesomeness.

A clipping from the school newspaper that favourably reviewed a performance of mine. The "cancer baby" play.

A note from a woman at my parents' old church, strategically written to introduce me to her nephew. Hilarious. (Yep, I emailed him. And yep, we're still friends.)

A lot of thank-you notes. Apparently I used to do a lot of kind stuff. Huh.

A card that commented on my flirting skills. It took me almost 5 minutes to realize it was referencing a jazz opera I was in. I didn't recognize a single signature. Quiet panic.

Floppy disks.

The headshot of a middle-aged Kitchener-based actor I once worked with.

My Exer-Clean Launderers contract. Yes, I have proof that I once did laundry for a living.